And now for some wilderness adventure

I’m not entirely sure what it says about Bishkek that after just two weeks here I was desperate to get out of the city for the day. The gritty griminess and dull monotony of the city was starting to get to me with ennui rapidly setting in, a sensation all too familiar amongst the teachers who have been here much longer than I. More vivid descriptions of the city to follow a bit later, but for now the details of my recent excursion into the alpine wilderness.

I was trying to get away from this…

…and this…

…for something more like this

Into the old great outdoors then

93% of Kyrgyzstan is covered by mountains so one doesn’t have to travel far to experience the rarefied country air. Ala Archa Canyon, our destination this past Sunday, is a mere 30 kilometers from Bishkek. Four of us ventured out – two other teachers (Kole and Nicola), and an anthropology graduate student (Karlien) – for an action-packed day of fun and mishaps.

Not being the world’s greatest outdoorsman, I was wholly ill-prepared. I don’t even own a proper pair of hiking boots, my shoes have zero traction and I had forgotten to bring any food. Excellent start. All were to lead to my downfall but it wasn’t I who suffered the most in the end. And at least it wasn’t very cold; the weather has been unseasonably mild since my arrival and Sunday was no exception, though there was still loads of snow.

Despite the scenery itself being stunning, the peaceful tranquility in and of itself wasn’t enough for such blood-thirsty thrill-seekers like ourselves. We wanted to find the alpine climber’s cemetery, honouring all those who had died in the area. After all, how often does one get to visit an alpine climber’s cemetery, and in Kyrgyzstan of all places? But getting to it required an arduous trek up the mountain and Nicola and I shared the same lousy footwear problem. So while Kole and Karlien faced little difficulty hiking up the hill, we slipped and slided our way up, if such a thing is possible. At various points we knew that what we were doing was ridiculous and that getting back down would prove to be the real problem. Regardless, we fool-hardily continued our upwards climb, and were eventually rewarded with the serenity of the cemetery.

Faces from the mountain past

There’s a certain sadness to visiting a climber’s cemetery. Inevitably, the majority of the bodies were never found, so what lies beneath is mere earth. But even more tragic is the story of the climber who, faced with the ultimate climber’s moral dilemma, cut his rope to save his climbing companions from plunging to their doom. For taking one for the team (what a ghastly way of putting it), he wasn’t allowed to be buried within the confines of the cemetery. Because the church deemed it an act of suicide, he was to be banished to outside the cemetery’s gates, in what was originally an unmarked grave. Apparently now it has a small memorial, but we were unable to locate it and pay our solemn respects.

Getting down wasn’t to prove as difficult as my original prolepsis, though it did feature a lot of scooting and sliding. Luckily, to this point I remained unscathed.

Back down in the relative safety of the valley floor, it was lunch time. At this point I was well and truly starving, feeling awfully woozy and was eagerly anticipating lunch.

But it wasn’t to be: the kitchen at the only hotel had no food so I had to quaff a pot of tea for sustenance. We still had a few hours to go and another mission to go on. My travelling companions offered me some of their lunch, which was very kind, but I foolishly turned them down. Why? Because I’m an idiot. Or, because I’d done it before so recently in what I thought were far more strenuous conditions, I thought I could do it again.

Briefly down memory lane. Or, haven’t I learned my lesson?

In September, my good buddy Jeff and I visited Petra. It was during Ramadan, so getting food and drink was always going to be a tricky proposition during daylight hours. Arriving from Israel on a Friday afternoon meant that public transport, as we were told by a very honest taxi driver, wasn’t running properly, and he kindly offered to take us to Petra for the low, low rate of 50 euros. An absolute bargain, and yes, I’m being sarcastic.

Our day in Petra was a glorious day in sparkling sunshine, suffocating heat and no food. We’d failed to pack any food, though we did have some water (detecting a pattern here?). Now, to make a long story shorter, we could have eaten had we wanted to. There were a couple of overpriced restaurants in Petra that mainly catered to tour groups, but we being such intrepid travellers were above that station. We reckoned we could make it through the day without eating: we’d punish ourselves to keep in the spirit of the situation. (Jeff had done it before, going an entire month many years prior, while working every day nonetheless.)

Now you can learn a lot from taxi drivers, who are often fountains of knowledge. One taxi driver told us (or, perhaps it was just me?) that in his mind, most Muslims ‘cheat’ during Ramadan. The streets of most towns and villages were empty during the day, as most people would get up just before the crack of dawn to eat, and then go to sleep all day, waking up in time for their iftar feast at sundown. This taxi man said that that wasn’t what Ramadan was about, and that to truly understand what sacrifice meant, you had to remain steadfast and stick to your normal everyday routine. Like he was. As he smoked his cigarette. But whatever, who am I to pass judgment?

Without fail, by early afternoon Jeff and I were starting to lose it. He had warned me that when he’s hungry he starts to babble and talk nonsense. By the end of the day, the utter rubbish and gibberish coming out of both our mouths would have been enough to render anyone apoplectic with insanity. Now, Petra is no easy stroll in the park either. It’s difficult work gamboling over the hills, scrambling over rocks, hiking up steep hills, all under the punishing midday sun. We were wobbly, our heads were light, and we were in desperate need of energy. Earlier we had bought a couple of sodas, which did us little good. For those who have seen the Facebook photo of me in Petra with my trousers down around my ankles (which was Jeff’s idea, by the way), that came right at the peak of our madness. You see what fasting does to a man?

[for the duration of my stay in Jordan, I actually fasted for the majority of my days; once you get used to it, it’s not too difficult.]

Back to the present predicament

Revisiting Ala Archa, where we pressed on with our afternoon, my hunger being somewhat satiated by the pot of tea.

Along with the cemetery, there was something else we wanted to see. So after pottering about a bit on the valley floor and walking on some very thin ice, we went in search of the ‘Bridge of Death’. Hell, I was intrigued.

We could hear the ice crackling under foot. But why should that stop us?

Getting there was the problem. We were now on flat ground, but the snow was close to knee-deep, and my feet were already soaked and almost completely numb. We weren’t entirely sure where this bridge was and there were no marked paths. We had little choice but to trudge through the snow.

Now, earlier when I was walking down the mountain from the cemetery, I was surprisingly able to maintain my balance, and I’m not the most coordinated person. (When playing baseball as a 12 year old, my coach actually suggested I take ballet lessons to improve my balance, a notion I quashed immediately: I would have been picked on even more than I already was.) But by now, the hunger was getting to me and it was Petra all over again, except in the snow. I couldn’t stop laughing, though at least my friends seemed to think I was funny. And I couldn’t stay on my feet, constantly toppling over into the snow, then bursting out into fits of hysterical giggles when I was helped up. It was a ridiculous scene, though I was having a blast. By this point, I was entirely soaked.

Eventually we found the ‘Bridge of Death’. Judge for yourselves whether it merits such an apocalyptic name.

What’s so deadly about that?

The tricky part, of course, is that it has no floor. And in my condition, it was clearly a bad idea to try and make it across. Naturally I tried, and had no problems at all. I had to admit, it was a bit anti-climactic, but at this point, breath-taking scenery notwithstanding, I was ready to get home for some much needed chow.

But before leaving, there was a minor bit of adventure. Poor old Nicola succumbed to the Bridge of Death, plummeting into the river when just a few metres from safety. Thankfully she was okay, though quite obviously drenched. Kole and I actually found it hard to contain our laughter at first, but I had an excuse after all: I was going nuts.

And just seconds later…in she went

Economics in the back of a taxi

On our journey back to town, we engaged our taxi driver in a bit of conversation about Kyrgyz politics. He spoke no English so it was a good opportunity for us to practise our Russian. Among the highlights, too numerous to go into here, were his reactions when we asked about how the economic crisis is affecting the country.

“Crisis? What crisis? This crisis is not affecting Kyrgyzstan because here it’s always a crisis, this is nothing new, we are always in crisis. This is normal. Every day is crisis.” And what about people losing their jobs? “Ah, this is not a problem, no one is losing their jobs because there aren’t any jobs to lose. Our people have no jobs. Ah, no problem, every day it’s normal here.”

But then, more soberly, he did say the economy would be in even greater trouble if the Kazakhs stopped crossing the border to buy cheap Chinese goods from the market. But that’s a far more complex matter. A topic for another time.

Soon I hope to report more on Bishkek itself. I’m still seeking out its seedy underbelly, so until then I may have little to share. Stay tuned.

Recommended reading. Or, credit where credit is due

If you want to read about real out and out adventure, the kind of stuff that would put most travel writers to shame, then you absolutely must check out my friend Rachel’s livejournal. Not only is she one of the best writers I know (and a constant source of inspiration to me), but her analysis of last summer’s events in Georgia (and much else besides) is second to none. For my money, not many people truly get it better than she does. The most recent posting is a real treat, but if you have the time, her earlier stuff is well worth checking out. Highly recommended. (And no, she’s not paying me to advertise.)

http://dukhobortsa.livejournal.com/